


Cry Uncle

by littlehollyleaf



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coda, Episode Related, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Kid Fic, Light Angst, M/M, Scars, casual references to murder and torture and physical violence, pretty sure it's getting immediately Jossed, so... an AU coda I suppose!, this is gotham - you know the drill, well... sort of a coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 21:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14173953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlehollyleaf/pseuds/littlehollyleaf
Summary: Set after 4.15. The day after Sofia's defeat Oswald, Ed and Martin are lying low while they plan their next move. Only Martin is tired of being suck in a safe house, Oswald is cold and irritable and Ed is flighty and distracted. When a scolding elicits an unexpected reaction from Martin, Ed and Oswald must work together to calm the young boy's fears.





	Cry Uncle

**Author's Note:**

> A little angsty addition to the murder family bandwagon. I don't usually do kidfic, so this was something! Shout out to Daisiestdaisy's [Bug in a Rug](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072391) for a) being a wonderful, much more canon compliant coda that everyone should read and b) inspiring a last minute, vulpine alteration to this scenario, because the idea was JUST TOO GOOD

 

Thud. Thud. Thump.

Thud. Thud. Thump.

Thud. Thud. Thump.

"Martin." Oswald looks up from his notes to glare at the young boy sitting cross-legged on the floor the other side of the abandoned shop counter. "Could you please stop doing that?"

It's extraordinary how much feeling the boy can communicate with his silence.

This one is undeniably sullen.

But the red ball Martin has been bouncing, relentlessly, against the side of the counter for the last five minutes holds still in his hands, so Oswald endures the wordless reprimand, gives a brisk nod and returns to his papers.

He adds a couple of names to his list of potential allies, using the new-found quiet to ponder the best ways to win them over and what resources they might provide. He’s just jotting these last beside the names when –

Thud. Thud. Thump.

Oswald slaps his pen down.

“What did I just say?” he snaps.

When he glances down again Martin is waiting with a scowl, nose wrinkled, hands squeezing tight around the ball. Once he’s certain Oswald has taken in his displeasure Martin stuffs the ball in his lap, grabs at the ever present notepad and pen about his neck and writes in a quick, efficient hand.

The message he holds up is one word, underlined twice.

_bored_

Oswald sighs.

He’s not without sympathy. And the truth is he wants nothing more than to devote all his attention to his young friend. But even with Sofia Falcone out of the picture his position is precarious – he still needs to clear his name, preferably by exposing Martin as little as possible, and then begin the tedious process of regaining his family wealth, his club and his throne. Once back in power he’ll be able to lavish Martin with all the time and riches his young heart desires, but until then there is much work to be done. As of right now he hasn’t even managed to source a change of clothes for heaven’s sake and he’s about sick of Arkham black and white. Although the purple coat and matching gloves Ed had given him are rather fetching at least, and warmer now the melted ice has dried.

“This is a toy shop,” Oswald says, gesturing at the looming clockwork figures arranged about the store front and the various wooden and mechanical creatures on the shelves. “Surely there is _something_ you can find to entertain yourself?”

Eyes bright with defiance, Martin holds up his ball.

“Something _quieter_ ,” Oswald amends.

Martin drops the ball back in his lap with a huff, frowns at Oswald and glares about the darkened room. When he turns his face back to Oswald his eyebrows are high, lips folded in a pout.

Apparently the place doesn’t inspire.

As Oswald follows the path of Martin’s gaze he can’t fault the assessment. When Ed told him the safe house he’d acquired for them was an old toy shop Oswald had imagined something bright and friendly, with soft animals and smiling dolls. But this place is frankly dismal. Especially now, lit only by the lamp on the counter and the last dregs of twilight seeping through the grimy windows. True, the creations lining the walls are remarkably intricate, their workings no doubt a testament to their creator’s ingenuity, but the colours are dark and dreary and the expressions, on those that have features enough to hold an expression, are downright macabre. Why anyone would want to play with such things, least of all a child, is beyond Oswald. You’d have to be either a very troubled or very morbid individual, or both, to derive any joy from this collection of oddities.

Somewhere in the back room there’s a cry, a crash and a trill of excited laughter.

A moment later Ed appears wheeling a large, circular board almost a tall as him passed the counter and into the shop. He props it up against a giant nutcracker figurine with a broken arm, flicks a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and starts cleaning the surface, grinning all the while in unbridled delight.

Oswald bites back another sigh.

But Ed’s appearance does offer a possible solution to his predicament.

“Well, why not speak to –” Oswald rolls his eyes at the title Ed had chosen for himself in regards to Martin. But only for a second and mostly for show. Secretly Oswald finds the familial implication endearing. “Uncle Riddler?” He nods to Martin and waves a hand at Ed’s back. “He likes games. Perhaps you can play one together.”

“No. Busy,” Ed mutters over his shoulder, one green-gloved hand on his chin as he leans back to look over his now slightly cleaner find. It appears to be a spinning wheel of some sort, split into coloured segments.

“Busy with _what?_ ” Oswald presses.

Ed turns his head, hat and glasses casting dark shadows across his face, and fixes Oswald with a slow, wolfish smile. His skin may be clean now, but the splashes of blood seeped into his collar and down his shirt remain, enhancing the predatory gleam in his eye.

“New project,” he says, turning back to the wheel and wiping at a black smear over the top edge without further elaboration.

That sounds ominous. And a little thrilling. But Oswald doesn’t have time for any of Ed’s nonsense right now.

“Well couldn’t Martin –?”

“No.”

There’s a sharp edge to Ed’s tone that Oswald doesn’t want to test.

Not that he considers Ed a threat anymore – the man had more than proved his loyalty yesterday by saving Martin and refusing to break under Sofia’s torture and they’d made their peace back at those infernal docks. Impossible as it might seem after everything, Oswald knows Ed won’t turn on him. Not now. Not anymore.

So no, it’s not betrayal Oswald fears. It’s that if he looks too closely at his newly restored friend, if he peels back too many layers, he will find Ed – irreparably altered.

He’d thought, back at the Asylum, it was the Ed of old he was setting free. That’s what the secret message seemed to imply – that the ice had numbed Ed, much like Hugo Strange’s so called therapy had once done to Oswald, and all he needed was a shock of heat to clear his mind and bring him back to himself. For Oswald, a dog keeling over from his stepmother’s poison had been what sparked his revival, so it hadn’t seemed so unlikely a specific word from a specific person might do the same for his old friend. Ed’s desperate resistance in the asylum waiting room _had_ seemed a bit extreme, but then, hadn’t Oswald too sworn against his old life after Strange’s brainwashing? He’d assumed he was doing Ed a favour ignoring his protestations. Helping to make him whole again. And Ed has been so _happy_ , so _exuberant_ since, that Oswald is almost sure he was right.

Except that sometimes Ed will speak a certain way or flash a sudden look that makes Oswald worry something is _missing_ in him now.

Because even when they were fighting there was always a _warmth_ to Ed. One that burned into fiery rage more often than not, but still – there was a depth of feeling behind everything he did. A passion that led directly to his heart.

Now that passion feels – colder. More cerebral.

Like now with this new mystery project.

He has the same wild glee and excitable, creative energy that has always accompanied his schemes, from Mr Leonard to his revenge for Isabel and beyond, but it’s different now. Flashier. A performance of himself. Not unlike the one he’d given Lee Thompkins at the fight club.

Or perhaps Oswald is mistaken. Perhaps the stress of Arkham and the lingering chill of his time in the ice is confusing him. Ed had seemed more himself when Oswald rescued him at the docks after all.

“Fine,” Oswald concedes, leaving the mystery of Edward Nygma for another day and turning back to the still pouting Martin. “Look, Martin, I’m sorry, but I really need to concentrate on this.” He taps the pages in front of him. “If I don’t figure out a plan to get back into power then boredom will be the least of our worries. So, you’ll just have to find a way to amuse yourself for while. Okay?”

Without waiting for an answer Oswald picks up his pen and gets back to work.

He’s just recalled a promising connection between two rival gangs that could be used to advantage if he can only figure out the best person to tip off when the train of thought is derailed by another, explosive –

_Thud. Thud. Thump._

The resulting exasperation is enough to propel Oswald to his feet. At which point the fresh pain that lances through his bad leg, already throbbing worse than usual as he continues to thaw, tips him all the way into anger.

“Alright that’s enough!” he yells, dropping his pen and resting both hands flat on the counter so he can lean forward. Martin jumps to his feet as well and folds his arms, ball back in hand, to his chest, chin jutting forward. “I have asked you nicely, more than once, to be quiet,” Oswald goes on, narrowing his eyes. “If you bounce that ball again, there will be consequences!”

Very slowly, gaze and scowl fixed on Oswald all the while, Martin unfolds his arms and lifts the ball to his shoulder. He pauses to narrow his own eyes, then throws the ball hard against the counter, not bothering to catch it when it returns this time so it bounces across the shop with a juddering _thud thud thudthudthud_ and rolls away.

The audacity!

Part of Oswald is tremendously proud of the young boy’s fire. But mostly he’s cold and in pain and annoyed.

The way Ed turns away with his fist against his lips to stifle a snigger doesn’t help.

“Well then!” Oswald slaps the counter to show he means business before starting the long, limping trek around it. “It would seem you have been lacking in parental discipline for too long,” he says as he walks. “No more! This kind of insubordinate behaviour cannot be allowed to continue and in the absence of your father it falls to me to teach you. _So_ –”

He’s reached the far side now and holds up a finger as he nears Martin, ready to finish his scolding. Bed without supper, he thinks. One of his mother’s old punishments. Although she usually spoiled it by slipping into his room later with freshly baked cake and apologies, unable to stay angry at her darling boy for long.

No doubt he’ll be the same with Martin, Oswald thinks. But he’s started now and needs to keep up appearances.

Only Martin flinches at the raise of his hand, eyes wide saucers of horror, and shakes and shakes his head.

Confused by this switch from moody defiance to utter terror, Oswald stops. But before he can say anything Martin is dashing passed him and around the counter, down the corridor and into the back room. He stops to shoot Oswald a pained and breathless look before grabbing the door and slamming it shut.

What?

“You showed him alright,” Ed pipes up while Oswald stares, open mouthed, at the dusty surface of the door. Oswald can’t tell if Ed is mocking or not. “Good job.”

“I don’t…” Oswald shakes his head. “He looked _scared_ ,” he mutters, trying to make sense of the turn of events.

“Well yes,” Ed says. “Wasn’t that the point?”

“ _No_.” Oswald turns with a frown to where Ed is leaning against the nutcracker. He’d suspected Ed of making fun, but his posture is casual – arms folded, legs crossed at his ankles, face open and inquisitive. It seems the question was an honest one. “The last thing I want is for Martin to be _afraid_ of me,” he explains. “And he was… he was _really_ afraid. Like he thought –”

Like he thought Oswald was going to strike him.

But why? He’s scolded the boy before – and the tears in Martin’s eyes when Oswald had raged at him for being a spy still make his stomach churn to think about – but never has he provoked such a visceral reaction. What was different about this time?

Dismissing Ed, Oswald follows Martin’s path down the corridor behind the counter and taps softly on the back room door.

“Martin?” he calls. “I’m sorry I yelled. Can I come in?”

Seconds tick by without response, so Oswald turns the door handle and pushes. Only the door holds fast. He tries again with the same result.

“Martin?” he repeats.

Nothing.

Seriously worried now, Oswald turns back to Ed, who is still lounging the other side of the counter, one eyebrow raised.

“He’s locked the door,” Oswald tells him with a helpless wave of his hands.

“Well,” Ed shrugs, distressingly calm in the face of Oswald’s growing concern. “At least you have the quiet you wanted. I’d call it a success. Let him stay in there. He’ll come out when he’s hungry, you can apologise. Win-win.”

He turns to squint at a patch of rust on his wheel, Oswald and Martin dismissed out of hand, and Oswald’s fear that the Ed he’s resurrected is somehow incomplete roars back to the surface.

But he can’t deal with that at the moment. Martin is his priority now.

“No,” Oswald counters as he makes his way back to Ed’s side. “No I… I think something’s really wrong… But if he won’t talk to me I can’t –” The idea hits him as he rounds the counter. It’s a desperate one, but it’s the best he has. “Perhaps you should talk to him,” he says as he steps up beside Ed’s shoulder.

Ed jerks upright.

“Me?”

“Yes,” Oswald nods. “He likes you. How could he not? You rescued him from peril and bought him junk food. So if he’s scared of me right now he might feel safer with you. And if you can talk to him you can ask him what’s wrong.” 

“I’m not –” Ed stops to adjust his glasses, and while his expression doesn’t change Oswald can’t help but find the gesture significant. It’s a little less Riddler and a little more Ed. “I have many skills, Oswald, but parenting isn’t one of them. Besides I told you, I’m busy.”

He points a flattened hand to the wheel.

“Right. Yes,” Oswald answers, pursing his lips. “With your new ‘project.’” 

Either ignoring or oblivious to Oswald’s disapproval, Ed trails his eyes up and down the oversized object, lips curling with mischief and something else. Something dark and menacing. 

“It’s time to show Gotham City who The Riddler really is,” he says and Oswald has to admit that’s something he’s been dying, quite literally on occasion, to know himself.

But in the meantime, talk of The Riddler makes Oswald realise he knows exactly how to direct Ed’s focus to Martin.

“Very well.” He gives a put upon sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to figure out this puzzle on my own.”

Keeping close watch on Ed from beneath his lashes, Oswald hangs his head in a show of despondency. He doesn’t have to wait long for his ploy to take affect because Ed is rolling his eyes the second he hears the word ‘puzzle.’

At first Ed just stands there, swiping his tongue about the inside of his cheek as he considers Oswald’s transparent appeal to his love of all things enigmatic. It’s a gesture Ed has made countless times since yesterday – feeling out his damaged teeth and gums Oswald assumes. The absence of the accompanying wince means the painkillers they’d swiped on the way over must be effective – Oswald makes a mental note to get some more.

Then all at once Ed’s whole body drops into an angry sigh and he turns and strides towards the back room.

He glowers at Oswald as he raps his knuckles against the locked door and Oswald does his best to keep his smile grateful, not triumphant.

“Hey kid,” Ed calls when Martin doesn’t respond. “It’s alright, it’s just me. You know –” He stares Oswald right in the eye. “Your _cool_ uncle.” Oswald frowns but lets the insult pass. If it helps Martin he’s willing to let Ed slander him however he likes. “Come on, open the door.”

For several, heart-stopping seconds there’s nothing but more silence and Oswald fears he may have lost the boy for good. Is there a back door or a window in that room? Could Martin have run away? But just as Ed lifts his fist to knock again there’s a soft click and the door knob starts to turn.

Martin is a picture perfect definition of angelic as he steps into the child-sized crack of open door, sweet face lifted to where Ed is standing beside the doorframe, soft curls glowing golden brown under the last shaft of dying sunlight from the front window.

He takes a hesitant step out of the room, notices Oswald watching from behind the counter and stops.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” Ed tells him. “If he tries anything I’ll stop him.” The corners of his lips twitch up. “I’ve done it before.”

If Oswald wasn’t so anxious he might have laughed at the incredulous look Martin shoots Ed at this. That’s his boy.

Disgruntled by Martin’s scepticism at his ability to best Oswald, Ed sniffs and continues more sharply.    

“Okay listen.” He drops down and squats beside Martin, one hand braced on the floor, other arm resting over his knee, so they are just shy of being face to face, Martin now in a position of power looking down at Ed. A calculated manoeuvre, Oswald suspects, designed to put the boy more at ease. “Uncle Penguin didn’t mean anything by shouting. He gets loud when he’s angry, that’s all.” Ed shrugs and adds – “Or when he’s tired. Or sad. Or hungry.”

Oswald bites his lip to keep from interrupting. Honestly, the nerve of the man.

“But he didn’t mean to scare you,” Ed goes on. “And he’s sorry. Right?”

This last is directed at Oswald himself, who is quick to shuffle up the counter and nod. Though he makes sure to keep to his side, afraid Martin might run again if he tries to cross this new distance between them.

“There, you see?” Ed offers Oswald to Martin with a decisive wave of his hand, like he’s presenting evidence in a courtroom. “So we’re good now? I can get back to work?”

He pats Martin on the shoulder and makes to stand, but Martin twists his fingers into the green cuff of Ed’s jacket and tugs him back down. When Ed turns his gaze to him Martin shakes his head no.

“No?” Ed says, repeating the unspoken word. His eyes narrow, but with curiosity as much as impatience. “Why? What is it?”

Martin casts a furtive glance at Oswald, shifts closer to Ed and angles his notepad so that only he and Ed can see the page. Ed follows the brisk movement of Martin’s pencil with rapt attention and continues to stare at the page long after Martin has stopped.

Oswald holds his breath as Ed looks over the hidden message, his mind assaulted by a multitude of imagined confessions, each more horrifying than the last. Had Sofia’s men traumatised Martin somehow? Hurt him? Made him scared of raised voices and sudden movement? Or had they turned Martin against Oswald with vicious lies? Or worse, with the truth? Whatever it is, he’ll kill them for it. All of them. Well, the ones still alive anyway. He’ll rip them apart with his bare hands.

“What?” he asks, unable to bare the silence any longer. “What does it say?”

Ed blinks up at him over the pad.

“It says _‘not uncle,’_ ” he answers, while Martin, who had been watching Ed with wide and hopeful eyes, now scowls at him for this betrayal and snatches the notepad away.

“Not…” Oswald starts to repeat, but trails off, shaking his head. This doesn’t fit any of his suspicions. “I don’t…” He turns beseeching eyes to Martin. “Martin, I don’t understand.”

But Martin drops his notepad so it hangs silently from his neck and hugs his arms to his chest, chin falling to the patterned edge of his bowtie, eyes on the ground.

“Oh. _Oh_. I see,” Ed exclaims and when Oswald turns back to him his eyes are glinting in satisfaction.

It takes several seconds and increasingly more pointed looks from Oswald for Ed to come down from the high of his mental discovery and explain.

“When you were trying to impose discipline on the boy earlier,” he starts, circling a hand. “You didn’t call yourself ‘uncle,’ you said you were going to take on the role of his father.” Ed switches back to Martin, dipping his head in order to catch the boy’s eye. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

A tuft of Martin’s hair brushes the rim of Ed’s hat as he looks up.

Martin takes a breath and nods as he sighs it out.

“So you…” Oswald starts, trying to make sense of this. “Martin, you were scared of me being your father?”

Before turning, Martin swallows, blinks, and wipes at his eyes with a sleeve.

The anguish in the expression he casts towards the counter makes Oswald want to cry as well, but it’s the sombre nod Martin gives that cuts him deepest.

And it shouldn’t. As much as he cares for the child, much as he likes to think of him as ‘his boy,’ he’s never considered being an actual parent to Martin. Or well, perhaps he’s _considered_. But it with the life he lives, the enemies he has, it would be impossible. Think of how much danger he’s put the boy in already. No. Martin is better off without him as a father.

Yet knowing Martin is actively opposed to the idea is somehow worse than any of the extensive tortures Oswald has suffered.

Worse than Fish Mooney destroying his leg. Worse than Strange and Jerome’s treatment of him at Arkham Asylum. Worse, even, than the bullet wound Ed had inflicted on him at the docks.

Because torment at the hands of his peers is one thing. Their words and actions speak as much to their own flaws and depravities as they do to Oswald’s.

But how broken, how tarnished, how far beyond redemption must his soul be to face rejection from young, sweet, innocent Martin?

“ _Why?_ ” Ed snaps into Oswald’s wretched reverie. Martin and Oswald’s shining eyes turn to him as one. “You do comprehend, don’t you, what this man has sacrificed for you?” Ed tells Martin, pointing a gloved finger in Oswald’s direction, voice stern. “A single day at Arkham Asylum is enough to crush anyone’s spirit and he spent _over six weeks_ in there to keep you safe. Not to mention the risk he took saving you from Miss Falcone before. He _clearly_ cares about you very deeply and is willing to go to extraordinary lengths to ensure your well-being. All evidence suggests Oswald would be an _excellent_ father. Why on earth wouldn’t you want him to be yours?”

Astonishment barely scratches the surface of Oswald’s reaction to this statement. He’s not sure there are enough words, in any language, to grasp the extent of his feelings on hearing Edward Nygma not only defend his ability to be a good father, but defend him _with gusto_. Oswald can only gape.

“You know what?” Ed carries on while Martin blinks at him. “Never mind. Your reasoning doesn’t matter because the logic obviously isn’t sound.” He points and holds a finger skyward beside his chin. “Let’s go over the facts, shall we?” His finger flattens out into an open palm. “What were you before Oswald, exactly? Just one nameless face in a sea of others? You were nothing, you were nobody. Then Oswald took you under his wing. Guided you. Gave you a home. Gave your little life a greater meaning.” Ed shifts so he’s kneeling on the floor, settling in to fully commit to his lecture. “Even after you _betrayed him_ , he still risked everything to keep you alive. What could… what could possibly _compel_ you to throw that away? Don’t you want someone like that in your life? Doesn’t everyone?”

Ed’s voice, so calm and collected when he started, is louder now and a little shaky. Like he’s taking Martin’s rejection as a personal affront.

That is, if he’s still talking about Martin at all. It’s hard to miss the uncanny resemblance to Ed and Oswald’s own history in the description.

“Do you think you’re being clever?” Ed presses and without warning his hands dart forward to grip at Martin’s shoulders, creasing the fabric of his cardigan, the golden bees threaded into the black fabric swarming beneath Ed’s thumbs. “That you’re better than him?” While Ed’s touch doesn’t seem painful the intensity of it, and the growing mania accompanying his words, makes Martin’s eyes grow into wide mirrors of Ed’s own, his body tense. Watching the exchange, Oswald straightens up and tenses himself, uncertain where this is going. Perhaps sending Ed to talk to the boy had been a mistake. “Because it’s not clever. It’s not smart at all, it’s foolish, you –”

“Ed, that’s enough,” Oswald says. Quiet, but firm. Whatever damage Ed is dealing with, he has no business projecting it onto Martin.

It’s a relief to all parties when Ed listens, lifting his hands away and curling his fingers to his palms. He takes a breath, licks his lips and sags back onto his haunches.

Martin relaxes once his freedom is restored, expression calming from panic to curiosity, head tilting to the side as he looks Ed up and down.

“You’re forgetting the danger I’ve put Martin in,” Oswald goes on, taking charge of the situation since Ed’s mind has clearly wondered off topic. “His life has been threatened multiple times because of me. His education disrupted. No I…” Martin flicks his eyes over to him and Oswald is powerless to stop his voice from cracking as their gaze meets. “I’ve caused him nothing but harm since the moment we met,” he goes on. “Of course he wouldn’t want me as a father. I don’t blame him.”

Martin’s face creases up and he reaches for his notepad, but once he has it in hand he stops and shakes his head, lips parted. Too overwhelmed to communicate in any medium.

“You think he objects to your lifestyle?” Ed cuts in, crisp and cool once again. “Don’t be silly. The kid thrives when in jeopardy. You should have seen him help take down Sofia’s goons, his performance was exemplary.” He turns back to Martin, but keeps his distance this time. “You don’t mind a little danger, do you?”

Still staring, miserably, at his pad, Martin gives a brisk shake of his head.

“Then…” Ed throws his hands up in exasperation. “ _What?_ What’s the problem?” 

But instead of trying to answer Martin turns and folds his arms above his head against the doorframe, shoulders shaking as he drops his forehead into the makeshift pillow he’s created and starts to cry in earnest.

This is too much for Oswald.

“Ed, leave it, please,” he begs. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter why. If that’s how he feels then…” He swallows. “Then I’ll find somewhere outside of Gotham for him to live. Like I planned to before. Somewhere far, far away, with a nice, normal family, so he never… so he never has to see me again.”

Oswald cokes a little at the end of his promise and is ashamed to see Martin’s small body shake harder in response. Dear boy. He might not trust Oswald to take care of him anymore, but he is still kind hearted enough to care about Oswald’s feelings. It’s cruel of Oswald being so openly emotional in front of him, but Oswald can no more reign in his pain over this than he can the constant ache in his leg.

“Wait,” Ed mutters, leaping to his feet. “What’s that?” He looms up behind Martin and stares down the back of his collar at the now exposed nape of his neck.

“Too dark. Come on, I need you in the light.”

Without another word he grabs the jutting edge of Martin’s shirt and yanks him backwards, dragging him down the corridor towards the shop floor.

At first Martin is too shocked to do anything but stumble after him, but once they near the counter he starts to struggle, twisting and turning in Ed’s hold and making weak noises of protest.

“Ed!” Oswald shouts as Ed all but carries a still protesting Martin around the counter and away from him. “Ed, what are you doing?!”

He turns to find Martin squirming in place, fixed in position by a heavy hand on his shoulder while Ed tugs at the back of his shirt.

“Ed, _stop it!_ ” Oswald cries, rushing over. “Let him go!”

He reaches out to free Martin from Ed’s clutches, then hesitates. If Martin is still afraid of him his touch might make things worse.

Fortunately in that same instance Ed releases Martin with a satisfied nod.

“That’s some scar you got back there, kid,” Ed notes while Martin totters away, rubbing his neck and glaring daggers at Ed over his shoulder. Ed stares back, unperturbed. “You got any more?”

“What –?” Oswald starts, but cuts off when he notices Martin’s reaction to what is, to his mind, an unnecessarily invasive and irrelevant question.

Because instead of looking upset or angry, Martin bites his lip and hugs his arms tight across his abdomen. He looks – _guilty_.

The whole situation is spiralling further and further from Oswald’s understanding, leaving him paralysed with shock and confusion, while Ed, in contrast, is nodding again, tight lipped and grim.

“Lift up your shirt,” he says and Martin hugs himself tighter and backs away.

“Ed, _what_ are you talking about?” Oswald gives Ed a cold, disapproving look before turning a softer one to Martin. “Martin, you do _not_ have to do that.”

This earns him a flicker of a smile, warm and grateful, that Oswald can’t help but treasure despite the unpleasant circumstance. But at his other side Ed lifts both hands to the side of his head, rolls his eyes and tuts.

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” he snaps. Cold and impatient. “Don’t you _want_ to fix this?”

His eyes flick from Martin to Oswald and back again, one hand gestured to each of them in a stately, almost regal command – King Solomon in shining green, presiding over his subjects’ troubles, ready to cure their ills with his wisdom. Oswald finds himself sharing a questioning look with Martin. A silent debate over whether to led Ed proceed.

Although no actual communication passes between them, their matching despair must be answer enough for Martin, because after a beat he slowly unwinds his arms and grips the bottom of his shirt with both hands. He glances at Ed, who gives a short nod, and begins to pull up the fabric and expose his stomach.

Oswald gasps.

The flesh around Martin’s belly button and across his chest is a patchwork of scars.

Some are tiny, thin and smooth, while others are bigger, puckered and rough in a way that reminds Oswald of his own disfigurement. Although these are nowhere near as severe as the damage to his leg, thank god. But still – to leave marks like that the wounds must have been deep and terribly painful.

He rushes forward. And has to stop himself again from trying to touch.

“Martin, who – who did this to you?” Oswald asks, breathless.

Martin covers himself back up, arms circling around him again, and doesn’t answer.

“Was it Sofia’s men?” Oswald goes on with a growl, latching on to the first enemy he can think of. “Because I swear to you, I will make them _pay._ ” He swipes a hand through the air. “I will –”

“No, Oswald,” Ed interrupts and Oswald blinks up at him, teeth still bared in fury. “It wasn’t Sofia’s men,” Ed explains. “Even if they had hurt him, there hasn’t been near enough time for the wounds to scar. No, those marks are much older. Made by someone who had access to Martin on a regular basis. Someone who wasn’t a stranger.”

He makes the claim so calmly, so matter-of-fact, that it takes a moment for the awful truth to sink in.

When it does Oswald’s fury bleeds out of him in a stuttered breath and he turns back to Martin with a hand on his heart.

“Your father?” he breathes.

Martin frees a hand to wipe at the tear tracks down his cheeks. And so he can hide behind his sleeve as he nods.

An image of Elijah's warm and smiling face fills Oswald's mind, a phantom press of soft arms holding him close ghosting about his shoulders. Trying to reconcile that concept of 'father' to the demon Martin had clearly been afflicted with leaves Oswald reeling.

“Let me guess,” Ed starts, filling the silence of Oswald's emotional turmoil with more calming logic. “He hit you here –” Eyes on Martin, he circles a hand over his own stomach and chest. Martin drops his arm and follows the gesture, seeming relieved to have something to focus on. “Never below the knee, never your face or your arms.”

It's a statement not a question, but Ed lifts an eyebrow at the end for confirmation.

With a last sniff Martin swallows down the rest of his tears, the sad lines across his brow sharpening into surprise as he nods. His head tilts a little after, eyes fixing Ed with an unspoken _how did you know?_

Ed sucks in a breath through his nose, lips twisting. If Oswald didn't know any better he'd think Ed looked nervous. Conflicted. But that kind of uncertainty has been banished since his transformation into Riddler, hasn’t it?

“Yeah,” Ed mutters, gaze on Martin turning unquestionably soft. “Mine too.”

Once again Oswald finds himself emotionally sucker punched and gasping.

“What?” he says, startled gaze lifting to Ed simultaneously with Martin's. “What do you mean?”

With a blink and shake of his head Ed's Riddler mask returns.

“It's pretty self explanatory,” he shrugs at Oswald. “The kid’s father was a Neanderthal who got his kicks from beating on innocent children. Unfortunately for Martin he also had a modicum of intelligence. Just enough to keep the evidence of his crimes safely hidden.”

“Yes, yes.” Oswald waves a hand, slapping the air with hard, vicious strikes, as though hoping he might destroy all trace of Martin’s sorry past with the gesture. “I understand _that._ What do you mean 'yours too'?” When Ed doesn't respond beyond a sharp lick of his lips, Oswald pushes – “Ed, did your father –?”

“Where was your mother in all this?” Ed turns and addresses Martin, blanking Oswald before he can finish his question.

Like Ed, Martin is calm again now and doesn’t hesitate to answer. Very like Ed, actually, Oswald notes with some trepidation, all trace of tears and fear wiped from his face as though they never were.

Instead of using his pad Martin acts out his reply, moving a finger slowly across his neck while the tip of his tongue pokes from the corner of his lips. As his finger completes its slice he tilts his head and crosses his eyes to finish up the charade.

“Dead huh?” Ed translates. “Did he kill her?”

Martin shrugs.

“You don't know?” Ed queries. “Or you don't care?”

Martin shrugs again, then pushes with a hand until his palm is hovering low to the ground just below his knee.

“Died when you were too young to remember, I get it,” Ed nods. “Be grateful for small mercies.”

Another mystery. Does that mean Ed's mother had been murdered? By his father? Or had his mother simply been as abusive as it seems her partner had been, and Ed is remarking on Martin’s fortune not to have had to suffer such mistreatment from both parents?

Before Oswald can ask for clarification Ed is turning to face him.

“Anyway, there’s your answer,” Ed tells him. “The kid isn't scared of you. It's the opposite. He obviously adores you. It's just that to his mind a father is a monster whose sole purpose is to hurt him. When you said you were going to take on a fatherly role he thought that's what you meant to become.”

The truth of this shocks Oswald's thoughts away from Ed and turns his full attention back to Martin.

“Oh! Martin, no, I –” He limps closer to his charge, gratified by the way Martin holds still and waits for him instead of flinching away. “I would never –” Even bending down he feels too imposing, so although it causes pain to lance through his leg bad enough to make him wince he drops to his knees. Unlike with Ed, Oswald's more diminutive stature puts him much farther below Martin's eye level, so he appears almost prostrate before the boy as he continues. “What that man did to you was _vile_ and _unforgivable_ and I am so sorry you had to suffer that. A good father, a _real_ father, would never hurt their child!” Oswald senses Ed shift beside them at this, but doesn’t stop to take further note of the reaction. “And I would never, ever hurt you. I _promise_.” He lifts a hand to Martin’s shoulder, wanting to hold him, soft and gentle like Elijah used to. But he resists the urge and merely ghosts his fingers over the curve of Martin's cardigan instead. “But if it makes you feel uncomfortable then you never have to think of me as a father ever again. Your safety is all that matters. So I will be whatever you want me to be. And you can call me whatever you like. Okay?”

Martin’s expression grows sombre as he thinks and Oswald holds his breath as Martin picks up his notepad, flips over the previous page and begins to write.

_Friend?_ his page reads when he twists it round.

Wet relief fills Oswald's eyes.

“Yes!” he smiles, nodding enthusiastically. “Of _course_. No matter what happens I will _always_ be your friend.”

At his side Ed shifts again and Oswald thinks he hears a quiet sigh escape the other man, but any interest he might have had in Ed's behaviour is lost when Martin explodes into a smile and rushes forward to envelope Oswald in a tight, delighted hug.

The last time Martin hugged him Oswald had been too scared to return the gesture beyond a couple of hesitant pats, afraid a dam might break inside him if he tried and he’d be unable to let go.

But with Martin no longer in need of immediate exile for his safety and Oswald’s love for the boy now public knowledge, Oswald sees no reason to keep fighting his heart. So he wraps his arms all the way around Martin’s small frame, laughing in joy and relief that the two of them are able to share their affection openly at last.

“Okay. Good. That’s settled then,” Ed mutters, breaking the moment. “I can get back to work.”

As Ed turns and steps back to his giant wheel Martin pulls away from Oswald to watch him, a couple of small, curious lines cutting into his forehead. Then, after another quick smile at Oswald, Martin hurries up behind Ed and tugs the back of his jacket.

When Ed turns and drops his head Martin is already writing.

Curious himself, Oswald pushes, painfully, to his feet to find out what Martin has to say. His struggle with his bad leg prevents him from arriving in time to see the message Martin holds up, but it doesn’t matter because Ed reads it aloud.

“Thank you.” Ed's lips flicker. A momentary softening at the edges. “You're welcome,” he answers, dipping his chin.

But Martin doesn't stop there. He flips the page and starts writing again and this time Oswald reaches his side in time to catch the words just before he holds them up.

_What happened to your father?_

“What happened to –?” Ed starts to read then cuts off, sucking in his bottom lip. More old, familiar uncertainty. “Oh, I don't know.” He waves a hand, dismissive, but the movement lacks his recent poise, arm stuttering through the air like he's following stage direction he hasn't had a chance to rehearse yet. “He's probably still on the front porch of our old home, getting drunk on Jack Daniels and catcalling passing women.”

Martin frowns, takes back his pad and writes a new question below the first so fast Oswald doesn't catch it.

Ed's brow creases as he reads, making his hat shift forward slightly.

“Alive?” he says. “Yes of course he's alive. Or he was when I left him.” He tweaks the position of his glasses to better glare down into Martin's inquisitive, upturned gaze. “We can't all be fortunate enough to lose our parental burdens in childhood.”

Martin drops his pad to point a thumb at his own chest, eyebrows lifting.

“Yes, like you,” Ed nods and something bubbly and warm pops inside Oswald’s chest on seeing how easily Ed is able to interpret Martin's unorthodox sign language.

Likewise, when Martin shakes his head in response Ed doesn't take the gesture as a failure to translate on his part but as the natural progression of the conversation it is.

“What do you mean not like you?” he counters. “You're an _orphan_. By definition your father _must be_ –” He stops, eyes turning shrewd. “Wait. What happened to _your_ father?”

In a, once again, notably Ed-like fashion, Martin bites his bottom lip, glances from Ed to Oswald and back again, then busies himself over his notepad.

Ed and Oswald share a curious look and Oswald steps up to Ed's side so the two of them can view Martin's answer together.

This time the reply is in pictorial form – in the centre of the page a collection of lines depict a rudimentary staircase, at the top a small stick figure with a few curls about the head, at the bottom a larger figure positioned on its side with x marks in place of eyes.

“So this is how he died, huh?” Ed mutters, tapping the cross-eyed figure that can only be Martin's late father. “With you watching?” He taps the second figure at the top of the stairs.

Despite how cruel the man had been, Oswald’s chest tightens in sympathy at the thought of Martin being present for his father's demise, thoughts clouded by his own all too traumatic experience of parental loss.

In contrast Ed's eyes begin to glitter, lips teasing upwards at the side in a cold twist of anticipation.

And slowly, slowly, Martin's lips spread wide above the picture in a complimentary smile, cherub-like features transformed into something altogether demonic.

He shakes his head once more, drops the pad and uses both hands to push forward into the empty air in front of him. Miming another push from years ago, atop a staircase, that wasn't against the air at all.

In the silence that follows Martin straightens his back and lifts his chin, eyes dark and unrepentant. Daring Ed and Oswald to challenge him.

For his part, Oswald is speechless with pride that Martin, _his_ Martin, had not only found the strength to successfully take down his oppressor while so young, but had done so without being caught or even suspected of the crime. He had no idea what a protégé the boy was.

Ed, meanwhile, gives a bark of laughter and reaches out to ruffle Martin's hair.

“Good for you, kid,” he grins and as he draws his hand away something passes between the two of them. Something deeper than understanding. Something Oswald recognises, with breathless wonder, as _affinity_ – not unlike he’d felt between himself and the boy when he’d coached Martin through his first successful manipulation of schoolyard bullies.

The moment softens Martin’s smile, turning him rosy cheeked and angelic again, and puts a light in Ed’s eyes that doesn’t fade. A glimpse of hidden warmth, not lost after all.

“You know,” Ed goes on, lifting the notepad with its macabre drawing from Martin’s chest. “This isn’t half bad. I mean –” He circles his free hand at the side of his head, adding in a rush, as though to make sure he’s not coming across too kind – “The perspective’s completely off and your grasp of anatomy is terrible.” He drops his arm with a shrug and sets the pad gently back into place. “But it’s got potential. You’ve certainly got an eye for drama. With the right tutelage you could be a decent artist.” Martin blinks up at him with just the right blend of intrigue and adoration to finally and completely win Ed over. “And well, I do have this old sign that needs a bit of sprucing up.” He nods to the propped up spinning wheel. “You want to help me out? While Uncle Penguin finishes up his machinations?”

Still grinning, Martin nods without hesitation.

“Cool,” Ed grins back. “I saw some paint out the back. Go get a pot of green and whatever else you can carry and we’ll get to work.”

Martin gives another brisk nod, beams at Oswald, then dashes away to complete Ed’s instructions.

Confident Martin can handle himself collecting art supplies, Oswald doesn’t bother to follow his run this time but keeps his eyes on Ed, unable to control the way his smile widens and wobbles at the edges as he watches the man he fell in love with grow more tangible by the second. Until the bright and gentle gaze Ed has been keeping on Martin all the way to the other room travels back and he catches Oswald’s look.

“What?” Ed mutters, attempting a frown.

“Nothing,” Oswald answers, lifting a shoulder in half a shrug. “It’s just… if I didn’t know any better I’d accuse you of being a sentimentalist.”

It’s a cheap little tease. Reversing the mocking criticism Ed had once made of him.

And there’s no reason Ed should even remember it. It had been a throwaway line when Ed made it, oh so many lifetimes ago, back when their friendship was still young, still on the verge of becoming more.

Except, knowing Ed like he does, and the near eidetic memory he’s often been known to display, Oswald suspects that like him Ed recalls everything that has ever passed between them with perfect clarity. So he’ll understand exactly what Oswald means by his choice of phrase – the complimentary equals Oswald senses they’ve become.

Though if he does understand Ed clearly isn’t ready for the implications because he scowls, albeit weakly, and mutters –

“Oh, shut up.”

Before Oswald can do more than chuckle he’s distracted by a heavy thud followed by a rolling paint tin clattering out from behind the counter. Turning reveals Martin in a valiant struggle with three more tins balanced precariously on top of each other in his hands and Ed and Oswald rush over together to help him.

Once they’ve got the paints and brushes sorted the evening settles down, Oswald returning to his perch at the counter to complete his plans while Ed and Martin attack the old wheel without mercy, covering it in a shocking assault of different colours and giggling together over what to write on it once it’s dry.

Many hours later, when the sun has long since set and Ed has rigged an assortment of old flashlights and coloured Christmas ones about the shelves to give them more illumination, Oswald has a plan of action just about sorted when he feels a pat on his arm. Martin waits quietly for Oswald to turn to him then slides a new picture across the counter, careful not to disrupt Oswald’s own pages.

The artwork is more detailed than Martin’s usual drawings, with splashes of colour here and there to enhance the scene. It contains four stick people, two of which are easily identified as Ed and Oswald, not just because of the streak of purple Martin has added to Oswald’s hair to match how he’d worn it that night at the charity dinner and the oversized bowler hat perched on top of Ed, but because Martin has labelled them both with a neatly underlined ‘Uncle Penguin’ and ‘Uncle Riddler.’ As far as Oswald can tell from a two dimensional drawing, the stick version of himself is in front of Ed, standing protectively with one arm behind him and his other outstretched, a thick black line in his hand that Oswald understands from the spiky lines drawn at the tip to indicate an explosion is supposed to be a gun. A plain stick man stands before Oswald, nondescript save for the dripping smudge of red erupting from his chest – presumably the target of Oswald’s bullet. Meanwhile, behind the stranger the small, familiar, curly haired figure of Martin brandishes a knife, ready to stab into the man’s back.

It’s a charming portrayal of an imagined family outing, but what makes Oswald really smile is the way Martin has labelled their victim ‘Uncle Riddler’s Father.’

What a sweet boy he is.

When Oswald looks up to praise Martin for creating such a delightful and thoughtful work of art he finds the boy with his eyebrows raised, head bobbing in a hopeful nod. Eager to turn his imagining into reality.

Oswald glances at Ed, whistling merrily as he neatens the lines between each segment of his wheel with a fine tipped brush, and all of Oswald’s old affection for the man’s creative quirks and boundless energy rushes back to him.

Yes. Yes why not do something nice for Ed, just because?

They could make a day of it. Lunch. Murder. Ice cream. Maybe a trip to the pictures after if there was time.

And killing Ed’s father might be just the thing to make up once and for all for killing that wretched woman of his.

“Martin, this is a wonderful idea,” Oswald smiles and Martin beams at him. “Leave it with me,” Oswald goes on, taking the picture in hand. “Once I’m back in power, we’ll surprise Uncle Riddler with it, okay? I think it’ll make him really happy.”

Martin gives a warm, satisfied nod of agreement and bounds away.

But instead of going straight back to Ed he gets distracted by a row of child-sized wooden soldiers beneath one of the shelves. Oswald watches, curious, as Martin leans closer to the toys, wondering what it is about them that’s caught his eye. He doesn’t have to wait long for an answer because after a few seconds of contemplation Martin reaches out to one and plucks something long and black from the figure’s wooden hands. As he pulls it into the light Oswald realises it’s a miniature, perfectly accurate, wooden replica of an old style musket.

Eyes sparkling, lips twitching with mischief, Martin takes the toy gun in both hands and turns to face the still oblivious Ed.

The scene that follows is such a joy Oswald actually has to pinch himself to check it’s not a dream. But no, Martin really does start creeping up on tiptoe behind Ed’s back until the muzzle of the gun pokes against Ed’s jacket. And when Ed turns to face him and Martin starts making silent ‘pow pow’ movements with the toy, Ed really does drop his paintbrush, clutch at his heart and play along with a stunningly melodramatic death scene, shuddering under the force of invisible bullets and dropping with a choking ‘no! you got me!’ first to his knees and then to his back, eyes closing, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

Oswald finds himself laughing along with Martin when he flashes a grin of triumph over his shoulder.

But instead of ending the scene there, Ed stays in position on the ground. Waiting. Until Martin places his gun on the floor at his feet and steps closer. And closer. And closer. And finally snatches Ed’s hat from his head and fixes it over his own curls.

It’s fair too big for him, the rim falling all the way to his eyebrows, but this doesn’t dampen Martin’s enthusiasm in the slightest when he spins round to show Oswald his spoils.

Which is just the moment Ed picks to strike.

“You fool!” he shouts in mocking rage as he grasps Martin about the middle. “This is Gotham, no one dies the first time you kill them!”

Then he’s tugging Martin onto his lap and tickling him all over while Martin makes breathless, high pitched sounds of laughter.

This goes on for some time, with Ed cackling in faux victory while Martin makes a show of trying to escape without actually expending any effort to do so, until finally Martin bends to the side and slaps his palm a couple of times on the floor.

“Oh, you want me to stop?” Ed queries, stilling his hands but keeping a tight hold on his make believe enemy.

Panting heavily, Martin nods.

“Only if you answer my riddle,” Ed tells him and Martin straightens up in his arms, eyeing Ed expectantly. “In a hole and never out, cunning and sly, hounded till I die. What am I?”

Even before Ed has finished Martin’s eyes light up with an answer and he grabs at his notepad, scribbling frantically across a clean page.

The image he reveals once he’s done is all in green – he must have swapped his usual pen with the new colour when Oswald was busy with his notes – but that doesn’t disguise the fact it is clearly a fox, muzzle pointed up, fluffy green tail curled about its legs.

Ed draws a breath and holds it, building suspense. Then –

“Correct!”   

He removes his arms from Martin and rests his hands on the floor behind him instead, but despite being granted his liberty Martin seems quite happy to stay where he is. And Ed seems more than happy to remain encumbered.

“I hope you like foxes, kid,” Ed goes on. “Because you’re going to meet one very soon.”

Martin’s gaze turns quizzical and he flips to a new page, pushing Ed’s hat higher up his brow as he writes.

The page he turns contains a single green question mark and Oswald wonders if Martin _knowingly_ chose to voice his confusion in such a way to further endear him to Ed, or if the appeal to Ed’s Riddler aesthetic is a happy coincidence.

Either way Ed _bursts_ with the resultant smile – a sunshine joy it feels like _forever_ since Oswald last saw in him.

“Well,” he answers. “We’ve just about reached the limit of safety this dump can offer us. If we stay here much longer people will start to notice. _But_ –” He shifts his weight onto one arm so he can wave the other in a theatrical point. “Not to worry because this was only ever a temporary solution. Just a quick and dirty hiding place to stash you while we dealt with Sofia. You’re going to _love_ the apartment I’ve got lined up for you next. It’s clean, tidy, well stocked with all kinds of stimulating intellectual material, and between you and me –” He leans closer to Martin again. “Your roommate is just adorable.”

Though he smiles, Martin’s brow remains wrinkled in confusion and he flips back to his drawing of the fox, holding it to Ed’s face and tapping the page.

“Yes,” Ed nods. “He is.” His grin turns sharper at the edges, the hint of a growl in his voice as he continues. “The foxiest of foxes.”

This doesn’t illuminate matters for Martin but he must sense it’s the best explanation he’s going to get because he shrugs and lets his notepad fall back into position.

The fox in question is GCPD’s own Mr Lucius of course. Ed hadn’t mentioned the next safe house he had lined up was Mr Fox’s apartment. It sounds risky to Oswald, entrusting not only Martin’s safety but also their own to a member of the same police force that is so eager to arrest them both and spirit Martin away god knows where. But he trusts Ed now, Oswald reminds himself, which means if Ed thinks Mr Fox will be able to keep Martin safe without handing any of them over to police custody then Oswald believes him.

That look and deeper, almost lustful tone, though. That puts the shadow of a frown across Oswald’s face and starts a dark, heavy brew of _something_ bubbling inside him. Something he hasn’t felt since that blonde haired hussy first appeared on the scene. Exactly when did Ed start to think so highly of Mr Fox anyway? And why? Did something happen between them when Oswald was convalescing with the juvenile Miss Pepper, perhaps, or –?  

Fortunately Oswald is saved from further dark and slippery thoughts by the distraction of Martin pushing to his feet.

The boy waves at Ed and Oswald to get their attention, then he lifts his notepad again and points once more at the fox, then at Oswald, then he pats the side of Ed’s bowler hat, then finally taps a hand to his own chest.

Oswald and Ed tilt their heads in unison as they try to understand and, seeing their confusion, Martin patiently repeats the gesture, tapping himself a little harder at the end and adding a nod that seems to say – _see? see?_ _you get it now?_

“Oh,” Ed nods. “Foxy. Penguin. Riddler.” He mimics Martin’s gesture with each name, pointing at the pad, Oswald and his hat. “You want an alias too, huh?”

Enthusiastic nodding. It seems Martin had deciphered enough of Ed’s explanation about Lucius to surmise he wasn’t an _actual_ fox, then.

“Wise,” Oswald smiles down at him. “A name can be a powerful weapon. It’s important to make sure you control yours and don’t let it control you.”

Ed gives him a curious look, but quickly shakes it away.

“Exactly,” he agrees, shifting so he’s cross-legged and staring up at Martin, hands in his lap. “So, you want to stick with the animal theme, or something more intellectual like mine?”

Oswald rolls his eyes while Martin ponders this. ‘More intellectual’ – _please_.

After a moment’s thought, Martin hooks both his thumbs together in front of his face and flaps his fingers to imitate wings.

“Something avian,” Ed interprets. “Gee.” He glances at Oswald. “Wonder where you got that idea.”

Two soft spots of red colour Martin’s cheeks as he lowers his hands, while Oswald’s cheeks ache from the proud stretch of his answering smile. His boy after all.

“Well, let’s see…” Ed mutters, adjusting his glasses as he commits to the task. “You’ve got this deceptively cute thing going on –” He circles a hand towards Martin’s face. “So we’re looking for something outwardly sweet but –” He smirks. “– with darker, hidden depths.”

“Oh, a robin!” Oswald suggests.

The others stare at him.

“What?” he presses, defensive. “Everyone thinks they’re just small and adorable but robins can migrate for thousands of miles and survive all kinds of extreme conditions. Some robins have even been known to attack small predators like snakes.”

More staring and a blink of surprise from Ed.

“You think you’re the only one who knows inane facts about wildlife?” Oswald tells him and Ed lifts his hands in surrender.

“Fair enough,” he shrugs before turning to Martin. “You want to be a robin, kid?”  

Martin’s nose scrunches up in distaste, although his eyes flash an apology at Oswald as he shakes his head.

“Yeah,” Ed agrees. “It’s smart,” he concedes. “But a little quaint.”

A light fills Martin’s eyes and he grabs his pen, circling it in the air a moment to indicate the others should wait while he draws. But when he turns the page to display what is unmistakably an owl Ed and Oswald answer together in resounding negative.

“No.”

“No!”

Frowning, Martin flips back to the page with the question mark.

“Unfortunate implications,” Ed explains.

“Trust us,” Oswald adds. “In this city, you don’t want to be associated with owls.”

“But hey, don’t worry,” Ed goes on. “You’ve got plenty of time and two of the best minds in Gotham to help you with this. We’ll find you the perfect name, I promise.” He reaches up to pat Martin’s arm – such an easy, casual gesture – then grabs his fallen paintbrush and hops to his feet. “Now come on,” he adds, offering Martin the brush. “Help me finish these last couple of outlines and I’ll go get us some take out.”

With a shrug and nod of agreement Martin drops his notepad and takes the brush, musing on his public identity left for another day, and as Oswald watches him and Ed restart work on the wheel the enormity of that instinctive assumption of a shared future, not just in Martin but Ed as well, leaves him breathless.

Because Ed hadn’t dismissed Martin’s desire to make a name for himself, he’d _promised_ to help him. Promised that he and Oswald _both would_. With one breezy but meaningful line Ed had confirmed he was willing to remain a notable part of Martin and Oswald’s lives for the foreseeable future, accepting his place at their side like the three of them really were the family Oswald has started wistfully imagining them as.

Heart beating that much faster with the kind of hope he hasn’t known in a long while, Oswald lets his eyes fall back to the drawing in his hand. When he’d promised to make it a reality for Martin only moments ago it had seemed a far off dream. Now Oswald wonders if they aren’t in fact half way there already, the dream but a whisper away.

That’s when he notices Martin hasn’t just drawn himself and Ed standing together.

The stick hand Oswald has extended behind him is overlapped with Ed’s.

Oswald has to press a real hand to his mouth to contain his feelings about this innocent portrayal of intimacy between them.

It could be nothing. An accidental misjudgement of space on the page or a show of platonic affection between friends. But Martin has never made such an error in his artwork before and Oswald has seen him draw various examples of friendship without the inclusion of joined hands.

No this, Oswald thinks, is meant to imply something _more_. But is it just a fanciful depiction of Martin’s wish for a set of loving parents? Or has he picked up on Oswald’s own secret, unfaltering desire? Or, Oswald wonders, breath catching in his throat, was there something about Martin’s time alone with Ed that hinted at what Oswald has been too scared to let himself hope for since Isabel – a matching desire in the other man towards him?

He glances back up, wondering if he might see something new in Ed in light of this, some hidden truth previously unknown to him that Martin’s simpler, childish perception had granted him insight to.

Ed has an arm around Martin’s shoulders, instructing him on how best to angle his paintbrush.

He has not, Oswald notes, reclaimed his hat.

As though sensing Oswald’s eyes on him, Ed stops to look over his shoulder and maybe it’s just whimsy but Oswald swears there is something electric in the look they share. A deeper, darker promise in the curl of Ed’s lips, before he turns back to Martin.

Oswald swallows as he looks back to the drawing, fingers circling the spot where his hand joins with Ed and he lets the dream stretch and grow until it’s so vivid he can almost taste it. The three of them sitting down for breakfast at the mansion, he and Ed stealing syrupy, pancake flavoured kisses while Martin mocks them over his cereal. Ed packing Martin a healthy, home-cooked lunch every day because he doesn’t trust the school canteen. He and Ed planning a schedule to fit time for Martin around the day-to-day running of their various criminal enterprises. Oswald giving Martin more lessons in how best to kill someone at short range, while Ed teaches him the most scientifically sound ways to dispose of the body.

In time, Oswald thinks, he might even teach Ed and Martin both what a true father is like so they can dispense with this ‘uncle’ business.

Of course, deep down Oswald knows he should reign himself in before this flight of fancy gets out of hand. But a treacherous part of his heart starts up a familiar whisper –

Maybe, maybe. Maybe this time he really can have the life and the love and the home that he wants. Maybe, just maybe.

He’s been wounded by hope so many times, and yet he still can’t seem to admit defeat.

Still, with the three of them together –

It’s not so impossible, is it?


End file.
